


For He Will Do as He Did Do

by Lauralot



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Animal Transformation, Cats, Crack, Dammit Westfahl, Fluff, Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-01
Updated: 2015-05-01
Packaged: 2018-03-26 16:56:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3858061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lauralot/pseuds/Lauralot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“You’re some kind of moron, Westfahl,” the Commander is saying.</i>
</p><p>  <i>“I tried to think of something innocent!” Westfahl protests.  “Something that couldn’t hurt me!” </i></p><p>In which the Winter Soldier becomes a cat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For He Will Do as He Did Do

The Soldier does not think the scepter is meant to be out of its case. 

The STRIKE team is to deliver the scepter to Baron von Strucker for use in his research. The Soldier does not like Baron; the look in his eyes when he regards the Soldier is discomforting. The Baron, the Soldier thinks, would like to keep him as one of his experiments. But the mission is to deliver the scepter, not the asset. The Soldier will not dwell on the possibility. 

He tries not to dwell on Westfahl either. 

Westfahl is holding the scepter, wide-eyed, examining it from all angles. The Soldier does not believe Westfahl is meant to do this, but the Commander did not actually say it wasn’t allowed, so the Soldier remains silent. 

When Westfahl brings the scepter close to his body, however, waving his arm around in a motion that the Soldier knows is called “air guitar”—though he can’t recall where he learned that—then the Soldier feels he must intervene. 

The Soldier stands and steps forward. It is not his intention to catch the agent off guard, nor to harm him. But his steps are naturally silent, and when Westfahl spots the Soldier in his peripheral vision, he starts, thrusting his hands out defensively. 

And because he holds the scepter, that springs forward as well. The tip collides with the Soldier’s sternum. There’s a thrum of power through his body, a smell like the air before a storm. It’s not unlike the chair, but the chair never made him feel so—so—

Westfahl is suddenly so much taller. The Soldier reaches perhaps his ankles. This is disagreeable enough, but the floor feels odd beneath the Soldier’s hands, and when he looks down, he can see neither flesh nor metal. Only fur. 

The door opens. 

“Dammit, Westfahl, what did I tell you about—”

On instinct, the Soldier’s back arches. He darts forward, running on his hands and feet, though that shouldn’t be possible. There’s a shout of surprise, but the Soldier is darting between the Commander’s feet and racing down the hall, fast as he can. 

He dives into the nearest shelter—an unzipped duffel bag, curling in on himself under a few layers of clothing. The fabric smells of sweat. The Soldier has never found that odor pleasant, but there’s something fascinating about it now, both new and familiar. He presses his nose against the clothing, ignoring the sensation of fur on his face as he sniffs. It’s a welcome distraction and his heart rate is slowing until the Commander and Westfahl enter the hall. 

He can smell them before he hears them, which makes little sense. His perception of smell has always been greater than average, but he’s never been able to identify a person by scent so far away before, not unless they’ve been in the field for days with no resources for bathing. 

“You’re some kind of moron, Westfahl,” the Commander is saying. His footsteps and voice both seem so loud, and the Soldier draws in on himself, ears drawing back against his head. How can his ears move that way? And why are they so high on his head? 

“I tried to think of something innocent!” Westfahl protests. “Something that couldn’t hurt me!” 

“When we find him and fix this, I’ll let him tear you limb from limb. Now check the fucking packs.” 

Westfahl’s trembling hand shoves into the duffel bag. The Soldier feels a sudden, intense compulsion to bite or scratch, but he restrains himself, burrowing further between the shirts. Westfahl’s search is not thorough— _To be expected_ , the Soldier thinks—and the agent declares an all-clear, moving on to another bag. 

The Soldier waits until their search leads them far down the hall before he risks moving again. 

He stretches his hands in front of himself. The light is dim, but he has no trouble seeing that he has paws now. The paws are covered in a light gray fur with darker stripes, a coat that continues up as far as he can see. Something brushes against his nose and the Soldier twitches, twisting rapidly, but finds only a tail. His tail. He has a tail now. 

Staring at it until he goes cross-eyed, the Soldier tenses and relaxes, testing the muscles in this new appendage. Once he is satisfied that he fully understands how to control it, the Soldier curls back up onto the shirts and closes his eyes. 

Sleep follows quickly. Having a tail is hard work. 

*

When the Soldier wakes, the air does not smell like HYDRA. Gone is the scent of damp stone, earth, and chemical cleaning agents. Instead, the Soldier smells the Commander. 

That must have been the familiar scent in the laundry. He was so distracted with the force of it and his new perceptions that he did not make the connection. 

Feeling thirst, the Soldier pokes his head out of the bag. He no longer feels skittish or threatened. When he makes the hop from the bag onto the floor, it is not soft, as he has seen cats move on missions. He has too many feet and they tangle with each other. Annoyed, the Soldier struggles his way back into the bag, catching his tail between his feet in the process. If this is to be his body now, he must learn to control it. 

He thinks he prefers this new body. Both of its arms are flesh and blood and it is too small to kill any humans. 

The Soldier’s third leap is as graceful as a cat ought to be. 

He saunters through the apartment. It smells of body spray, laundry soap, and beer, just like the Commander. There is a voice. The Soldier believes it to be a television as it sounds tinny and artificial. He decides he will sit in front of the TV and wait for the Commander to take care of him. 

That is his plan, at least. But as soon as he is in view around the couch, the Commander is bolting up. “Hey!” 

The Soldier tenses. He wants to run. He cannot run. The Commander will want to return him to the base. The Commander will—

And the Soldier realizes the Commander does not _know_ the Soldier retains his mind. For all the Commander knows, the Soldier has the brain of a cat now. A cat would not listen to orders. 

The Soldier arches his back and runs, taking comfort in a shoe beneath the bed. 

*

The Commander had tried to reach him, but the space under the bed is very narrow and the Soldier’s claws are very sharp. Once the Commander dripped blood onto the rug, he seemed to stop trying. 

He is on the phone now. He has been on the phone for a while. From what the Soldier can hear, he is talking to HYDRA. It seems that he is not to bring the Soldier back just yet. They are still working out how to reverse the process without causing harm to their asset. The Soldier does not think he will mind if they take days to work this out. 

There is a click, the press of buttons, and then the Commander is speaking again. “Jack. Jack, I found the Soldier...Yeah, he was in my bag...Because Westfahl’s an idiot, that’s how...Listen, they put me in charge of dealing with this shit, so get your ass over here and help—no, I don’t give a damn about your allergies, you’re going to—Jack? Jack!” 

Another click, and the Commander swears. Now that there is no chance of being returned to the facility tonight, the Soldier slips out from under the bed frame. The Commander will not harm him in retribution for the scratches. The Soldier is too valuable and the Commander is too smart. 

“Murphy,” the Commander says into the phone, glaring as the Soldier pads down the hall. “Don’t ask any questions, got it? Get over here.” 

The Soldier brushes his head against the Commander’s ankle. His own scent, warm and mildly sweet, mixes with the smell of the Commander. The Soldier feels a rumbling in his chest at the new sensation. A purr. 

“What did I just say about asking questions?” the Commander demands. The Soldier rubs against him again. He suddenly thinks of how it would feel to have the skin behind his ears scratched. It would feel wonderful; the Soldier just knows it. His entire being is reduced to a small, fluffy bundle of desire. He pushes against the Commander again, harder. 

The Commander does not move. 

Irritated, the Soldier digs his claws into the fibers of the carpet and tugs, pulling free strands of the carpet in his wake. 

“Hey!” 

*

“Well, hello there, Mr. Cutie Kitty Soldier,” says Agent Murphy, bending down. 

“ _Mrow_ ,” says the Soldier. He is still thirsty and now his dignity feels mortally wounded. 

“He won’t stop crying.” The Commander’s fists are clenched, but he won’t lay a hand on the Soldier in this state. There’s something immensely satisfying in that knowledge. “And he’s shredding my rug.” 

“He’s probably hungry.” Murphy pulls a small can from his pocket. “How many hours did we spend looking for him? Has he had any water?” 

“ _Maow_ ,” says the Soldier quite empathically. 

“Thought so. Come on, Kitten Soldier.” Murphy starts toward the kitchen and, much as the Soldier would like to sink his teeth into the agent’s leg for that name, his thirst currently outweighs his pride. He can probably swipe at him later, anyway. 

“Are you using my bowls?” The Commander frowns, though he does not move to block the cabinets. “I don’t want cat tongue all over them.” 

“Your dishwasher’s hot enough to kill any bacteria.” Murphy rolls his eyes. He fills a bowl with water, setting it on the floor. The Soldier rushes forward, lapping at the liquid. He succeeds only in splattering his nose. Cats, he discovers after a moment’s experimentation, apparently drink by flicking the water backward, up under their tongues. Strange. 

“See?” Murphy asks. “He was just thirsty.” 

“Great. So now he can piss on my carpets instead of clawing them.” 

“I could bring some litter—”

“Hell no. I’m not dealing with that shit. He can use the drain in the tub.” 

Murphy pulls back the lid on the can. The delicious scent of meat fills the room, and the Soldier abandons the water in favor of meowing at Murphy’s feet. 

The Commander wrinkles his nose. 

“I could take him to my place,” Murphy offers. “I’d have to keep him separated from the other cats, but—”

“No,” says the Commander, before the Soldier can meow his own protestations. He can smell the cats on Murphy now, strange and threatening. He can’t possibly sleep tonight surrounded by such a scent. “I have to keep an eye on him personally. Orders from Pierce himself.” 

The Soldier imagines what the Secretary must have looked like when he heard what had become of his greatest weapon. The Secretary’s anger has never been funny before. 

“He’s pretty little,” Murphy says, and the Soldier nearly turns his nose up from the food. But burying his face in it is too compelling to resist. “This should keep him satisfied through the night. If you don’t have to bring him in first thing in the morning, I can bring more.” 

“Fine.” The Commander’s rubbing at his face. He looks tired. 

Murphy kneels down. The Soldier thinks of taking refuge under the table, but he is hungry, so he chooses to ignore the man until he feels a gentle scratch behind his ears. 

_Oh_. It feels as nice as he’d imagined. The Soldier’s shoulders slump, chin supported by the rim of the bowl. His whiskers fall to his sides, and the purring starts again. 

“Good kitty,” Murphy says, continuing the motion. “You’ll be good for Brock, won’t you?” 

The Commander makes a skeptical sound. 

*

It is dark. 

The Soldier is not tired in the least, but the Commander is in bed. Earlier in the evening, when the Soldier had run around the floor and kicked off of the furniture and the walls, the Commander had not been happy. The Soldier imagines he will be even more displeased if his sleep is interrupted. 

The Commander’s bed is far from the ground. The Soldier takes a running start to make it onto the mattress. Even then, he has to hook his claws into the comforter to haul himself fully up. 

The Commander is asleep on his back. He is wearing pajamas that smell especially strongly of the laundry soap. He looks warm. 

And the Commander, the Soldier reminds himself, will not dare to harm him. 

As he is settling on the Commander’s chest, walking in circles until he feels content to settle down, he feels the man stir. “Wah—hey—no.” 

The Soldier tries to look very adorable and lonely. He is not sure if the attempt is successful, as he is not sure how to project emotions on a cat’s features. 

Perhaps he is successful, as the Commander only sighs. 

The Soldier nestles himself into the soft fabric of the Commander’s shirt. He closes his eyes. 

Then he opens them right back up as the Commander’s hand strokes his head. 

The Soldier cannot keep from purring. 

**Author's Note:**

> The title is a lyric from the song ["The Rum Tum Tugger"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GDZ5QJOsSNs) in the musical _Cats._


End file.
